


Outlet

by Laur



Series: The Song Nobody Knows [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Relationship Negotiation, Sirens, Slight Voyeurism, So little plot, So much smut, exploration of their relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 08:27:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6697360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laur/pseuds/Laur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Gently,” Harry would beg, as Irene covered Harry’s body with her own.</p>
<p>“I don’t know how,” Irene would gasp, her nails digging in painfully. </p>
            </blockquote>





	Outlet

**Author's Note:**

> A further exploration of the the relationship briefly looked at in The Song Nobody Knows, plus the obligatory smut.

In the bright sitting room, Harry sat with a cup of tea and a book, the songs of midday birds drifting in through the open window. She’d been reading for about half an hour now, but was really only half following the plot.

Another moan came from behind the closed bedroom door, and Harry crossed her legs more tightly.

Irene was with a new client today and, by the sounds of it, he was very much enjoying his session. For several moments it was silent, then the client let out a desperate cry, and Harry bit her lip, smirking. Oh, yes, he would certainly be visiting them again.

Harry shifted in her chair and pressed her cool fingers to her blushing cheeks. It wasn’t the sounds she found arousing, but rather the reminder of Irene’s power, the audible proof that Irene’s touch could give such exquisite pleasure. 

When their relationship had still been a fledgling thing, Harry had found Irene’s strength and passion overwhelming. Their couplings had often ended with bruises forced into Harry’s skin, bloody teeth marks on Harry’s neck and tears in both their eyes.

“Gently,” Harry would beg, as Irene covered Harry’s body with her own.

“I don’t know how,” Irene would gasp, her nails digging in painfully. 

It had put them at an impasse, Harry sore and skittish and Irene guilty and restless. For a week they had kept separate rooms, until one night, just before dawn, Irene crawled into Harry’s bed, waking the human with her chilled skin.

“Irene,” Harry breathed, voice rough with sleep. Hot breath puffed against Harry’s skin as gentle kisses were pressed to the nape of her neck. 

“Let me try again,” Irene whispered, rolling Harry onto her back and looking down at her. “If I hurt you, stop me, and I will never touch you again. But, please,” she stroked Harry’s cheekbones, “please, let me try once more.”

Irene’s eyes were wide and fierce in the darkness, her touch seductive as she traced Harry’s lips. Harry closed her eyes, giving in. “Yes. Yes, alright.”

Irene inhaled sharply and leaned down. Harry tensed, waiting for the sting of teeth biting her lip, but received only a soft, grateful kiss. Her breath stopped.

The sex that had followed had been their gentlest so far, and Harry had come rocking on Irene’s hand, throaty encouragements in her ear. 

In the weeks that had followed, Harry had been in heaven. Irene shared Harry’s bed nearly every night, and the nights that she did not, she would join Harry early in the morning, affectionate and eager. It had been blissfully perfect until Harry’s curiosity got the better of her.

“Will you come to bed with me tonight?”

Irene had been restless all evening, pacing the sitting room like a hungry panther, a feral look in her eyes.

“Not tonight, my love. I’m not in the least bit tired.”

“We don’t have to sleep right away,” Harry offered, stroking her fingertips idly along her collarbone. 

Irene’s eyes snapped to the motion, but she only smiled and looked way. “Not tonight.”

“Where do you go off to, when you go out at night?” she asked casually, returning her attention to the dress she was mending.

“Oh, here and there,” Irene replied, just as lightly. “Stretching my legs, exploring.”

“I might join you,” Harry offered, pushing her needle through the fabric. “To keep you company?”

“No,” Irene retorted quickly. 

Harry looked up in surprise and then hissed as the needle pierced her skin. She stuck her finger in her mouth to soothe the ache, the burst of iron exploding across her tongue.

“My apologies,” Irene said gently, watching her mouth. “Only I know how cranky you become when you don’t get enough sleep.”

Making a face at her, Harry returned to her work, letting the matter drop for the moment.

It was only three days before her curiosity turned to anxiety. Mycroft had been gone for ages, the occasional telegram outlining her travels the most they heard from her, so Harry had gone to Sherlock for advice. Then, of course, she’d found out about Irene’s nightly cannibalism, which had put a damper on things for a while. 

The sounds of voices interrupted her musings, and Harry quickly put down her book. She stood, feeling suddenly giddy, and nearly skipped out of the sitting room and to her and Irene’s bedroom on the second floor. Harry stripped to the sound of effusive thanks and quiet farewells, then pulled down the bedcover and lay down on the sheets, completely naked. She squirmed briefly, rolling her hips as anticipation bloomed, then forced herself still, listening carefully for Irene’s footsteps.

The creation of the Dominatrix had been the best thing that had happened to their relationship. Irene after a session, with the Siren bloodlust sated but power still thrumming through her veins, was breathtaking. What Harry didn’t like, was when Irene offered her back and her whip to her client, when she left a session with violent slashes on her body and tension in her jaw. As Harry had cleaned Irene’s wounds, she’d always thought those types of sessions to be counterproductive, but now that Irene had made herself a reputation, she could afford to be more selective with her clients. Now, men (and women) like Mr. Hudson were often shown right out the door.

The whisper of Irene’s tightly wrapped talons, swaddled like a ballerina’s feet, reached Harry’s ears as Irene climbed the stairs. She closed her eyes, her breathing quickening.

She knew the moment Irene stepped into the room, the air suddenly thick with anticipation. Goosebumps broke out along Harry’s skin as the silence continued, Irene taking her time as she raked her eyes over Harry’s naked body, which was laid out and waiting.

At last, when the tension had Harry clenching the sheets, Irene moved forward, her presence casting a shadow over Harry’s face, and pressed her lips to Harry’s. Harry opened her mouth immediately, and her eyes snapped open in surprise as the faintest hint of blood invaded her mouth.

Irene’s eyes were dark, her breathing rapid, her cheeks flushed. “He wanted the knife,” she murmured, pressing her lips to Harry’s jaw. Her hand came to rest gently on her knee, and began a slow, purposeful path up her thigh. “God, it was beautiful, the way his blood ran. I tasted it and imagined it was you.”

A moan broke free from Harry’s lips as Irene’s thumb came to rest at the edge of her pubic hair. Bloodplay always made Irene especially excitable, and Harry reached out to slip her hand under the short, mesh slip she wore.

“Oh, God, no wonder you’re so worked up,” Harry gasped, writhing against the fingers that brushed teasingly against her lips. She spread her legs to offer better access, but Irene pulled her hand away with a chuckle. “I bet you’re wet already.” Harry tugged and Irene eagerly crawled onto the bed to straddle her leg. Following the press of Harry’s hand on the small of her back, she lowered her hips to rub herself against Harry’s hip. She was indeed dewy with arousal and Harry groaned as the small movements of her pelvis smeared her essence along Harry’s skin.

“I nearly ran from the room once the session was over,” Irene admitted, smoothing her hands confidently up and down Harry’s body, tweaking her nipples and squeezing her hips. “It was nearly more than I could bear, standing around and talking to him, with his blood in my mouth and you waiting for me up here. I nearly pushed him out the door.”

By this point Harry was panting, her skin hypersensitive as Irene’s fingertips flowed all over her body. Irene rolled onto one hip, and they both watched her hand as it moved down Harry’s stomach and lower, her pointer finger and pinky delicately spreading her open as her middle and ring fingers grazed her unfurling clitoris. 

Harry pressed her head back into the pillows with a desperate inhale, pleasure sparking deep in her pelvis. She was so hot and swollen, each gentle brush of Irene’s fingers coaxing the fire within her, and she could no longer bear the thin cloth between them. With fumbling hands, she pushed the slip up around Irene’s waist, and Irene sat up to help pull it over her head. Abdominals tensing, Harry sat up to press her lips to Irene’s sternum, her hands cupping her modest breasts. Irene’s chest rose and fell quickly as Harry nipped and licked her skin, and she moaned when Harry’s hands smoothed over her buttocks to settle high up on her hamstrings, her fingers clenching and relaxing rhythmically on Irene’s inner thighs.

“No more teasing,” she begged and pushed Harry back onto the mattress, kissing her forcefully. 

They had toys stored in the locked chest under the bed, but they no longer had the patience to fetch them. Harry smoothed her hands obsessively up and down Irene’s back, exulting in the expanse of smooth skin, all hers. For months Irene had shied away from any touch to her back or her hair, self-conscious and grieving over the loss of her wings and feather tresses, but now she just squirmed closer, pressing her flexing thigh between Harry’s legs. 

“Fuck,” Harry gasped, her hips thrusting against the pressure. The angle was slightly awkward, but she insinuated her hand between Irene’s bum cheeks, the heel of her hand pressing tantalizingly close to her anus as her fingers explored the wetness they found.

With a hiss, Irene threw back her head, and Harry was quick to bring her lips to her neck as they began in inelegant grind against each other, two of Harry’s fingers pulsing just barely inside of Irene.

“Yes, that’s it,” Harry breathed, pushing her fingers in more deeply. Keening, Irene buried her face in the pillow by Harry’s head, her dark hair tickling Harry’s cheek and forcing Harry to transfer her kisses to Irene’s shoulder. Irene’s hands skimmed her ribs to settle at Harry’s waist, squeezing desperately. “Oh, I can feel you clenching around my fingers,” Harry moaned, thrusting against Irene’s thigh. 

“More,” she gasped, her spine arching. One hand migrated from Harry’s waist, down her hip and to her knee where she pulled, encouraging Harry to wrap her leg around one of Irene’s, entangling them further. 

Harry added a third finger, up to the second knuckle, and bent her fingers, searching and pressing until Irene cried breathlessly, hips jerking harshly. She pulled out her fingers slightly and repeated the motion until Irene was shaking, the wet sounds of their coupling filling the room. Profoundly affected by Irene’s reactions, if wasn’t long before they were both sweaty and panting with pleasure and exertion, the motions of their bodies tight against each other. Harry’s hand had started to cramp, but she persevered, encouraged as the clenching around her fingers quickened and strengthened.

“Oh, God, you’re nearly there,” Harry huffed, twisting her fingers on the next thrust. 

“Harry, don’t stop,” Irene exclaimed, her pleasure cresting, her pelvis grinding frantically. “Don’t – oh, yes, _fuck!_ ”

Harry crushed Irene to her, her fingers fluttering madly against that spot inside her lover as Irene whimpered and thrashed and squeezed around her. It seemed to go on for ages, and when her muscles relaxed a bit, Harry pulled out her fingers, her hand damp with Irene’s arousal, just to thrust them back in a few times, feeling Irene shudder in her arms. 

“Oh, God, I could come off again if you keep doing that,” Irene admitted gutturally. “But you now.”

Harry’s fingers slipped out as Irene pulled back, her leg falling back to the bed, and she lay there panting for a moment, her hips circling minutely, mindlessly, as Irene raked her eyes over her body. Irene took Harry’s soaked hand and slowly brought it to her lips, maintaining eye contact as she licked and sucked her own essence off of Harry’s fingers. Biting her lip did nothing to stop the sounds escaping Harry’s throat with each exhale, and she could feel herself clenching in arousal, her free hand moving to touch herself. 

“Ah, I don’t think so,” Irene chided, snatching the wrist of her wandering hand and pinning both hands above her head. Shifting so one hand had a secure hold on both of Harry’s wrists, Irene wasted no time in delving her free hand between Harry’s legs, rubbing quick circles over her clitoris. 

Eyes rolling back in her head, Harry shouted her pleasure to the ceiling, squirming against the unbreakable hold on her wrists.

“Irene, love, oh, Christ yes,” she babbled, the pressure on that sensitive bundle of nerves not so gentle now, perfect, so perfect. She could feel her orgasm building, the incessant stimulation sending her higher and higher, sensation building to an almost unbearable level as she cried out. Her spine arched as her climax overcame her, the pleasure exploding and expanding like a shockwave inside her. She could hear Irene growling with satisfaction as she continued to circle her fingers, more gently now, drawing out Harry’s pleasure. 

As Harry relaxed back onto the mattress, Irene again lay down on top of her, and they kissed and writhed together slowly as aftershocks sent shivers through the both of them. 

After a while, Irene began fingering herself as they kissed, and Harry held her as Irene shook her way through another orgasm, eyelashes fluttering and lips swollen. 

When they were both sated and exhausted, they lounged lazily in bed. It wasn’t yet three in the afternoon.

“Let’s have dinner,” Irene murmured a little later, curled up like a cat against Harry’s side, idly stroking patterns on her chest. 

Harry hummed in agreement, shivering as a crescent was traced onto her skin, wavy lines beneath it. A ship in the ocean. “Where to?”

“I’m craving steak.” The Siren pressed a kiss over the invisible ship and rolled over to sit on the edge of the bed. She stretched luxuriously as Harry watched, her spine lengthening and twisting intricately as she moved.

“Sounds good.” She shifted onto her knees and shuffled over until she could bestow two kisses to Irene’s back, just below her shoulder blades. She brushed Irene’s dark curls over her shoulder and leaned over the other one, Irene burying a hand in her blond hair as they kissed briefly. 

Their arrangement wasn’t always perfect – sometimes Harry got jealous, or Irene was too forceful. Sometimes they argued and fought, just like any other couple, but not once did Harry ever feel trapped, not like she had with William. Harry felt more like an equal when she was with Irene, an inhumanly strong Siren, then she had ever felt with William, a human man. They took and gave in equal amounts, without pressures or expectations, and, while she had regrets, if Harry were to do it all again, there wasn’t a thing she would do differently. 

“If you could, would you go back to the rocks?” Harry whispered, resting her chin on Irene’s shoulder.

For a moment, Irene was silent, her fingers fiddling with a lock of blond hair. “At first, I was resentful,” she admitted. “As you know. I was angry that I was being punished for Sherlock’s arrogance, for Sherlock’s mistake. But, had I been given the choice to either return to the rocks, or come here with you, I would have chosen the latter.”

Harry pressed her smile to Irene’s shoulder. 

“I don’t mind so much anymore, what I’ve lost. I’ve grown into the life we have here. I can’t imagine being anywhere different.”

“Thank you,” Harry murmured, and with a parting kiss, got up to get dressed.


End file.
